in   the  endless  winter  day,  on  the 
 crystal white plains...  we trudge along 
   the train tracks... themselves slowly  
 snowed over, in the  still  hours  since 
          the last supply train.          
                                          
     bell-like sounds of the blinding     
 ground. rifles  attached  to  our wrist, 
 sharing in  our  bloodstream.  my husky, 
      my warm-coffee-in-cold-snow...      
                                          
 the  first  five  shots  you  can  spend 
 indiscriminately, they hurt but  deal no 
 long time  damage  to the  shooter.  the 
 next five  you must spend  wisely,  they 
 will  take days  to heal. the final five 
 you    must    not    spend   at    all. 
                                          
 weeks earlier,  in the weak autumn dawn, 
 in  the blue-gray  fog...  something  is 
 burning  with  a  deep   crimson  flame, 
       untameable by water or wind.